Care to Try Your Luck?
It has been a while, but I
finally made it to the road again. This
is really a courtesy trip rather than one of the grand explorations in which I
generally engage. “What is a courtesy
trip?” you ask. It is one targeted to
meet family expectations. Oh no, not my
family; if they moved somewhere they’d probably hire an elite security firm to
keep it a secret.
This journey was in response
to a recent move by Frank’s sister Judy and her husband Al. For those of you
new to my travels, Frank is my best friend (low standards?) and frequent travel
companion. Now normally the
responsibility to accompany Frank on such a junket would fall to his lovely
bride, Michele. But she had conveniently
scheduled a river cruise in Russia with some of her female traveling
buddies. I’m not sure how she divined a
year in advance just which week this trip to Sin City would occur, but I’ve got
to admit she has a gift.
So, to visit Al and Judy in
their new digs, we saddled up and away we went.
Hopefully you have reasoned by this time that the destination city is
Las Vegas, Nevada. Now normally when I
write about Las Vegas, it is the first Las Vegas, Las Vegas, New Mexico; not
this Johnny-come-lately refuge for the overfed and under brained. If your sensory cells are working, you may
detect a bit of displeasure with this sparkling jewel of the desert.
Well, it’s not the city, it’s
me. I don’t gamble. I’ve reduced my alcohol intake to maybe one
cocktail per month. I’m too old and wise
to interpret the attentions of a stripper as anything but the sales pitch it
is. In short, there is nothing there for
me except the roller coasters and I’ve ridden them all.
So why am I writing this
travel (b)log if there is nothing write about?
Because when Frank and I get together, there is always something to
write about. We are characters in the
comedy of life. And truth be told, if
you look hard enough, you can always find something of interest.
One of the necessities of a
road trip (I don’t fly) to Vegas is the epicurean visit to Baker, CA. Unfortunately, the Bob’s Big Boy, nee Bun Boy
(you just insert whatever immature little comment pops into your own deviant
mind… I’m not sayin’ nuttin’) has closed.
We passed on The Mad Greek. Our
only other option was fast food so we settled for the filling
station/convenience store/multi-pack restaurant that among its offerings
included an A&W Root Beer stand. The
burgers were unremarkable but they made their root beer freezes with hand
dipped real vanilla ice cream. Not even
back in the 1970s when I worked in an A&W Root Beer stand did we use hand
dipped real vanilla ice cream in our root beer freezes. We used the de rigueur soft
serve. This was a treat and may elevate
Baker to the destination category.Dam, that’s Big
If you have any sense of history, you will probably have
guessed from the sub-title of this section that we made a day trip to Hoover
Dam (originally, Boulder Dam). Surprisingly, I had never taken the opportunity
to pursue this bit of history. I know,
it’s not like anybody famous shot anybody infamous here, but a lot of people
died during the construction of this edifice to government control over the
natural environment and the company I ended my business career with (J.F. Shea
Co., Inc.) was a major player in the project. They carved out the diversion
tunnels that rerouted the Colorado River allowing the dam to be built.
As big as the dam is, it does
not present as an impressive a sight as the pictures with which we are all
familiar. I guess it is a matter of
perspective. As we approached the visitors’ center, we were advised and
re-advised that it was a security area and all bags and people would be X-rayed
and magnetometered in the name of homeland security. Frank returned to the car to unburden himself
of his metal detector averse accoutrements and Judy and I (Al was somewhere
playing tennis) proceeded to the visitor center screening area. In response to my placing a wad of cash in
the metal bucket the guard advised me I needn’t have my money X-rayed. I unfolded the bills to show him that there
was a metal money clip inside. He asked
the obvious question “Is that a knife?”
I responded in the affirmative triggering the admonition that I could
not take a knife into the center or on the tour. Now in my mind, because I know better than to
argue with a cranky septuagenarian toting a pistol, I thought, “Now do you really think I’m going to be able to use an
inch and three-quarters blade to highjack this concrete monstrosity (I don’t
know how much concrete, because I was not allowed into the visitor’s center)
and fly it into a building?” I silently
picked up my money clip and left the security station. Our party agreed it would not be worth our
time to walk back to the car for the purpose of storing my knife/money
clip. We walked across the dam, I took
some pictures of some South Africans when they asked, and retreated to the
snack bar for some refreshing drinks. We
left the dam, returned to Las Vegas and met Al, who by this time had completed
his tennis endeavors, for a buffet lunch at the Orleans. It was a good buffet lunch, as buffet lunches
go, but it was not Mexican food in Las Vegas, New Mexico.Them Rocks is Red
Day two put us on the trail to Red Rock Canyon. We (once
again, Frank, Judy and I… Al apparently plays a lot of tennis) started the day
off by breaking fast at some casino the name of which I do not remember. I had chicken-fried steak and eggs. The gravy was good. We then proceeded a short distance west to Red
Rock Canyon National Conservation Area (BLM). In this case, BLM stands for Bureau of Land Management, not Black Lives Matter. I am obliged to share that my barber had suggested this visit. Her advice was useful as this is a stunning
visual location.
There are many facets to this
gem of the desert, but in truth it is all about the geology. The feature has
been part of the planetary evolution for right around 600 million years, give or
take a millennium. It was part of the
shallow sea that covered what is now the western part of the North American
Continent. After about 375 million
years, tectonic movement (look it up…)
caused the sea bed to rise. The area was converted into a swamp where exposure
to the atmosphere allowed minerals to oxidize and voila, red rocks!
The story continues, but I
don’t want to turn this into a science lecture.
Well, okay, I do, but in an effort to retain the few readers I have
left, I will cease and desist. If you
are interested, you can visit the BLM’s Red Rock National Conservation Area
website.
The park is easy to get
to. Located on Charleston Boulevard
(SR-159), it is seventeen miles due west of the Las Vegas Strip. The park offers a thirteen mile scenic drive
and thirty miles of hiking trails.
As a special treat, the timing
of our visit allowed us to witness the local police helicopter performing
practice stranded hiker rescues from various ledges (…make you home sick, Nick?) by hovering next to a rock outcropping
while the rescue subject stepped onto the skid.After our self-guided (okay,
we just followed the road) tour, Judy asked us to return her home because she
had things to do. This of course was
code for, “I’m done listening to your inane chatter; I need the company of sane
adults!” We dropped her home and went in
search of the Holy Grail of all road trips, the perfect gun store.
We found one neighborhood gun
store, newly opened. But their stock was
not particularly impressive. There was a big-box sports outlet that offered a
staggering inventory. Alas, it was all stock-in-trade stuff like Glocks and
Sigs and Springfield Armory current generation wallet busters; not a vintage
Smith & Wesson or Colt to be found.
Finally, we located a shop that boasted the availability of machine guns
that could be shot at their on-premises range.
We observed some under talented shooters for a while but opted not to
spend the exorbitant price to do something we had done before. It seems that Las Vegas gun shops target the
tourist more than they do the serious gun aficionado. We cut our losses, searched out a Dairy Queen
and took advantage of the buy one, get one for $0.99 promotion on Blizzards.There’s Always One Last Thing to See
The following morning we departed Las Vegas en route the
Hinkle’s bourgeois Palm Desert resort condo.
Sometimes, in the proper light, I can see the validity of the French
Revolution. We opted to retreat from the
city of a thousand vices via highway US-95 (the old road to Vegas) to avoid the
boredom of I-15. About ten miles south
of Henderson, we turned off the highway for a side trip to Nelson, Nevada.
This mining area was originally called Eldorado by the
Spanish who discovered gold in 1775.
Today, the area is known as Eldorado Canyon and Nelson is a town of
mobile homes and ramshackle inhabited by modern day prospectors. The real find is the Techatticup Mine ruins
that lay just a bit farther down the road. Someone inhabits the buildings there
but didn’t seem too interested in making contact although seemed in no way
offended by our snooping around and picture taking.The mines were active from about 1858 until 1945. A historical placard out front of the main collection of timber sided building (this is the desert folks, they will last forever) informs visitors that many of the original miners were deserters from the Civil War. Apparently the mining operations were hampered by frequent waves of violence but none the less produced about seven million dollars.
Supplies for the operation
were delivered via steam boats on the Colorado River originating from the Gulf
of California. Before the twentieth
century invasion of damn dam builders and agricultural water piracy, the river
was quite navigable. In 1974, a flash
flood in Eldorado Canyon washed away a modern recreational marina and destroyed
the remnants of the shipping wharf. As
you drive along the canyon today, the mine adits and ventilation shaft openings
can be seen along the walls. We eventually reached the end of the canyon road
(which to our surprise was nicely paved all the way) arriving at the Colorado
River. We hurled some insults across at Arizona but as usual, no one seemed to
be home. Likely, they were all in San
Diego trying to escape the desert heat.
Heh, heh... we fooled ‘em this year.
Stupid ‘zonies?
After slaking our cerebral
thirst for all things historic, we retraced our route back to US-95 and
proceeded to Searchlight, Nevada.
Searchlight is famous for two things: One of them being the home town of
Harry Reid, current majority leader of the U.S. Senate and buffoon
extraordinaire. Come on now, even if you
are a Democrat you have to admit that this oompah-loompah is a joke in a poorly
tailored suit. The second wonder of
Searchlight is a newly opened Mexican food restaurant the name of which escapes
me because I disposed of the receipt against all advice from Frank for the
purpose of reporting it here in this narrative. (Sometimes, I like to insert an
unnecessarily long and complex sentence just to see what Word’s grammar filter will let me get away with.) Surprisingly, the food was very good. They passed the carne asada test, which is a
rarity outside of Southern California.
From Searchlight it is a long
and tedious, featureless drive to the interchange with I-10 for the last leg to
Palm Desert. One last feature of note is
the remnants of the town of Vidal, California (not to be mistaken for Vidal
Jct., CA). This unincorporated town site
is infamous for being the home to Solar Lodge, a secret society. I will let you research the cause of its
sinister reputation and leave you with this tease. In the 1960s, several members were arrested
for child abuse in a case known as “The Boy in the Box”.
However, the reason I include
Vidal in this memoir, is its connection to Wyatt Earp. It seems that late in his life, he and common
law wife Josephine Sarah Marcus (no ladies, not
that Marcus) wintered in Vidal while the ex-lawman worked copper and gold
mining claims he had established in the area. If you don’t know who Wyatt Earp
is or why he is important, there are several books available on the subject of
his life. Or, if you want the two hour
version, there are many movies. The
best, in my humble opinion, is Tombstone
(1993, Hollywood Pictures). At all
costs, avoid Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
(1957, Paramount Pictures)!
Today, there is little left
but some mobile homes and one standing rock building. It was kind of fitting that a trip begun with
a visit to a city that is all smoke and mirrors ends with a stop, well actually
a roll-trough, of a town where even the ghosts have given up.
